


(rescue me) when i found you

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Grant Ward stages a daring rescue, plays the hero very well, and may or may not make a huge mistake.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Comments: 27
Kudos: 153





	(rescue me) when i found you

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the best mistake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790581) by [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix). 



> This was inspired by JD's amazing [the best mistake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790581/chapters/29189199). Shout out to her for letting me write a fic inspired by one of hers without even knowing which one, lol.
> 
> And I am VICTORIOUS still! Week 7 down! \o/
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

_6.17.2013_

Grant’s a hard man to rattle, but he’s gotta be honest: when he walks out of the showers to find Maria fucking Hill waiting for him in the locker room, he very nearly jumps.

And while he does manage to keep his hold on his towel, he _doesn’t_ manage to hold back his “What the _fuck_!”

The Deputy Director doesn’t look impressed.

“I mean,” Grant says, stiffening his shoulders, “what the fuck…ma’am?”

Looking even less impressed, Hill jerks her head at his locker. “Get dressed, Ward. Your leave just got cancelled.”

Okay. This is bad. Hill hanging around the men’s locker room is one thing—Grant’s got a bet going with Barton that she just genuinely enjoys fucking with people (Barton’s money is that Fury bases her annual bonus on how many specialists she can make scream and/or cry like little girls)—but SHIELD is annoyingly uptight about making sure agents get proper downtime. Grant has literally _begged_ to have the mandatory post-undercover leave waived on more than one occasion. He’s tried blackmail, bribery, and even threats of physical violence. Nothing’s ever worked.

That it’s happening _now_ , three hours after the second-longest undercover op of his career? Something huge is going down.

“What’s the situation?” he asks as he crosses to his locker. The Ops Academy trains modesty out of all its students; Hill’s not gonna waste (apparently) valuable time leaving while he gets dressed, and he doesn’t expect her to.

“Forty-seven minutes ago, we lost contact with a field lab in Tanzania,” she says. “We sent the nearest rapid response team to check it out. The lab was destroyed and the guards slaughtered.”

There’s a glaring—and definitely deliberate—omission to that summary. “And the scientists?”

“Scientist.” Hill’s at least considerate enough to avert her eyes when he drops the towel. “Singular. Jemma Simmons, Level Five biochemist. She’s a priority red asset…and she’s missing.”

“Whoever hit the place was after her,” he guesses. “…Or she turned traitor and is faking her death.”

Hill looks briefly pained. “We don’t consider it likely. And please don’t suggest anything like that in front of her partner.”

“Partner?” he asks.

“Leo Fitz,” she says. “You have heard of Fitzsimmons, right?”

…Oh shit. “I thought Fitzsimmons was one person.”

“Common misconception,” she says. “But no. It’s two.”

Two of SHIELD’s brightest and most valuable scientists—and one of them’s missing, with all her guards dead and her lab destroyed.

Yeah. Grant gets the urgency now.

“Was Fitz on-site?” he asks as he shoves his feet into his boots. He doesn’t bother lacing them; he’ll have time on the quinjet and they’re on a clock.

“No,” she says, leading the way out of the locker room. “He’s been here for the last six weeks, collaborating with SciOps on a new weapon, while Simmons was experimenting with local wildlife in Africa.”

“Right.” Not good news—Grant was hoping Fitz was a witness. “So what do we know?”

“Underground chatter and some movement from major players led us to Malcolm Calloway,” she says. “He’s a black market arms dealer who’s been promising a new bioweapon for months. Best guess, he couldn’t get it working and his buyers are getting impatient.”

“So he decided to bring in some outside help,” Grant finishes. “We got a work-up on this guy?”

“Yeah,” Hill says, “and it isn’t pretty. If Simmons doesn’t cooperate—and the smart money says she won’t—he’ll get violent fast. You get in and get her out.”

“And Calloway?”

“Leave him alive, if you can,” she says. “There’ll be a bigger team behind you, ready to roll up his whole operation, and they’ll want him for questioning.” They’ve reached the elevators; she hits the down button with unnecessary force. “But don’t go out of your way. Getting Simmons out is the priority; anything else is collateral damage.”

“Understood,” he says, then nods at the elevator doors. “I’ve got another go bag up—”

“There’s a fully stocked quinjet waiting in the hangar,” she interrupts. “And three anonymous travel cards. Anything the quinjet doesn’t have, you can buy in Berlin.”

Grant barely holds back a whistle. If SHIELD is unreasonable about post-op leave, they’re outright crazy about the travel cards. Getting one is a struggle; three? He’d sooner try requesting Fury's coat.

“Understood,” he says again, for lack of anything else. “You have the file on Calloway?”

“On the quinjet,” Hill says as they step into the elevator. “Speaking of which, there’s one more thing.”

Her tone is distinctly ominous. Grant braces himself. “What’s that?”

“Agent Fitz,” she says, still with that ominous weight. (Grant, seeing she has a dramatic pause thing going, goes ahead and presses the button for the hangar level himself.) “He wants to talk to you before you go.”

Talking to the worried, useless partner. Always a fun time. “Great. Looking forward to it.”

xxx

Agent Fitz, as it turns out, does not want to talk to him. Agent Fitz wants to _shout_ at him.

“—and in your entire worthless life you will not accomplish what Jem does in an _hour_!” Fitz is ranting as Grant checks the quinjet’s stock. “She’s more valuable than your entire class at the Academy put together—”

First aid kit, go-bag full of generic SHIELD tactical uniforms, three months’ worth of rations, fourteen pistols, thirty magazines, two assault rifles, one grenade laun— _grenade launcher_? Who the hell thinks he’s gonna use a grenade launcher in the middle of a hostage rescue?

“—and if you come back without her—”

“I’m not gonna come back with _or_ without her if I never leave,” Grant interrupts, shutting the portside overhead bin firmly. “And I can’t do that with you on board.”

“Fine,” Fitz says. He’s shaking—fear or fury? Could go either way. “But I’m warning you—”

“None of my guns will ever work again if she’s got so much as a scratch,” Grant says over him. “Yeah. I heard you the first three times.”

Hill’s standing at the bottom of the ramp, wearing that look that usually precedes Grant being sent back to the Academy’s _how to interact with your colleagues like a human being_ seminar again. Grant heroically manages not to roll his eyes and rests a hand on Fitz’s shoulder.

“I get it,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring her home safe.”

“You’d better,” Fitz says sulkily—not exactly a thank you, but as he lets Grant steer him out of the quinjet without protest, Grant’ll take it. “And I want hourly reports!”

That is not happening. “Sure thing, man.”

“Ward,” Hill says, giving him a short nod. “Good luck.”

“Don’t need it,” he says as turns back. “But thanks.”

_6.18.2013/6.19.2013_

For all of Hill’s urgency, Grant knows that it’s better to take his time when it comes to actually infiltrating Calloway’s base/mansion. He’s only got one guaranteed shot at this; the guy’s psych work-up calls him _impulsive_ and _erratic_ , and Grant’s gut says if he spooks him, he’ll cut his losses and execute Simmons.

So he ignores the increasingly urgent and/or disparaging texts from Fitz (and Grant is gonna have _words_ with whoever shared his number with the prick), settles in, and spends two days observing.

The quinjet really is fully loaded, all of SHIELD’s latest and greatest spy tech present and accounted for. He’s got heat sensors, long-range mics, little drone cameras…the list goes on. It’s everything he needs to build a full picture of the mansion’s security.

He gets everything he needs on the first day, then waits another, just to make sure nothing he saw was out of the ordinary. If there were any changes, he’d have to give it another day or two to be sure of the pattern; as it is, the guard force’s movements are consistent and SHIELD’s just as antsy as Fitz.

On day three, Grant goes in.

_6.20.2013_

The infiltration goes well…for the first twenty minutes.

Grant gets in unnoticed, slipping easily through the gaps in the guards’ patrol and remotely looping the security cameras as he goes. (Thank you, SciOps.) His point of entry—the east wing roof, the weakest point in the mansion’s security—and the lab are on opposite sides of the mansion, but he doesn’t think it’ll cause enough of a delay to make a riskier entry worth it.

Turns out, he’s wrong on that. He’s just ducking around the corner into the hallway that leads to the lab when an explosion rocks the floor.

…An explosion that originates in the lab.

Swearing in three languages, he abandons stealth and runs for it, shooting six guards on the way. He finds the lab filled with smoke, burning corpses—and in the corner, a coughing, cowering Simmons.

Not cowering. _Hiding_. She’s got a defensible position behind a weirdly angled desk, as far as it’s possible to get from (judging by the position of the corpses) the epicenter of the explosion.

No way. “Did you do this?”

“Don’t come—any closer!” Simmons shouts around her coughs. She brandishes a test tube at him. “I’ve g—got more where—that came from!”

It’s just about the least intimidating thing he’s ever seen, but he’ll give her points for effort. And for the explosion; it was clearly a nasty one. Not one of the guards survived it.

He’s kind of impressed, actually.

“That won’t be necessary, Agent Simmons.” Keeping one hand extended in the universal symbol for _calm the fuck down_ , he pulls his badge out of his vest and flashes it at her. “Agent Grant Ward. I’m with SHIELD.”

“Oh, thank god,” she exhales, resting her head briefly against the desk. Then she dissolves into an even worse coughing fit.

Yeah, the smoke’s not dissipating, it’s _increasing_. He doesn’t know what the hell she did, but he’s got a feeling it’s not over yet.

Time to get out.

“Did you have an exit plan?” he asks as he picks his way across the room. The journey gives him a closer look at those corpses, and he’s forced to hold back a wince. There was obviously some kind of chemical component to the bomb, because that is _not_ fire damage. More than one guard’s face has been burned completely off.

No wonder Calloway wanted her.

“No,” Simmons admits sheepishly. “I was counting on my ability to improvise.”

Now how did he know that would be her answer?

“Lucky for you, I’m trained for this kind of thing.” Placing himself between her and the door, he takes a minute to consider his mental map of the mansion’s security. The explosion and his mad rush bought them a few minutes, but no doubt all the guards are converging on the lab as they speak. Going out the way he came’s impossible. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” she says, but the way she braces against the desk and levers herself to her feet is _not_ encouraging.

“Okay.” If everyone’s gonna be focused on the lab _anyway_ … “How do you feel about heights?”

Simmons looks distinctly apprehensive. “They’re fine. Where is this going?”

“Out the window,” he says, and unholsters his gun. “Get back behind the desk.”

She spends the thirty seconds it takes him to shoot out the reinforced glass bemoaning her life choices. Grant politely pretends not to hear.

xxx

It’s not easy, but he gets them out. Simmons turns out to have a sprained ankle; he carries her out piggy-back, which is touch-and-go climbing down the side of the mansion but works fine once they’re on solid ground. He has to hand it to her: she’s tough. She hides her face in his shoulder the whole time and whimpers more than once, but she doesn’t scream and doesn’t panic.

And once they’re far enough from the mansion that he can set her down for a second, the first thing she says is, “Thank you.”

All in all, not the worst rescue op he’s ever pulled.

“You’re welcome,” he says as he pulls out his phone. One text goes to SHIELD, alerting them he’s secured Simmons; another goes to Strickland, who’s heading the second-wave team, to let her know they can move in. “SHIELD’ll keep them busy now, so we probably don’t need to worry about being followed, but it’s a long walk to the quinjet. You need a minute? Maybe a doctor after all that smoke?”

A dirty, anonymous back alley in the middle of Berlin isn’t a great place for a break, but Strickland’s crew isn’t the one SHIELD calls in when they want a covert operation. The whole area’s about to swarming with helicopters, SHIELD convoys, and all the lookie-loos they bring out. The media’ll be everywhere, and a guy in tac gear carrying a bruised, soot-stained woman is gonna draw a lot of eyes.

If she needs medical attention, better to decide it now, before the locusts really descend.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” She pats her chest gingerly. “I just wasn’t expecting the lab to be so poorly ventilated, that’s all.”

He has to smile at her primly disapproving voice—it’s just brimming with implied judgment of whoever designed the lab.

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “So. You want a break? Cup of coffee, maybe?”

“No.” She rests her head back against the wall she’s leaning on. “I’m fine.”

It’s less convincing this time. “You sure about that?”

“Just uneasy,” she says, trying—and failing—for a smile. “It’s only that it’s been…a very long week. The lab—and then, my guards were—were—”

Ah, shit. She’s gonna cry.

Even odds whether the guards she’s tearing up over are the SHIELD guards who died in her defense three days ago or the guards she just killed in the lab, but either way, he’s got nothing in his arsenal of practiced words to reassure her. He’s got plenty he could _say_ , but no matter how true, “they were doing their jobs” and “they would’ve killed you without a second thought” won’t comfort her a damn bit.

Not to mention, _something_ set her off. That explosion she caused was deliberate, yeah, but it was spur of the moment deliberate. She had no exit plan, no step two. Just a sudden explosion that left her cornered.

Something happened there. Something bad. He’ll leave it to the shrink SHIELD’s about to assign her to dig out the particulars, but whatever it was, it was big enough to push her into killing a room full of people and risking her own life in the process.

So, yeah. Words just aren’t gonna cut it here.

Only one thing for it.

“Would you like a hug, Simmons?” he asks in his driest, most monotone voice. His robot-of-SHIELD tone, as Romanoff once charmingly dubbed it.

As he hoped, it surprises a little laugh out of her. But then her expression crumples.

“Actually,” she says tearily, “yes. Please.”

He pulls her away from the wall and lets her collapse against his chest, rubs a soothing path up and down her back as she sobs. They can’t really spare the time—Strickland’s team occupying Calloway’s forces means they’re safe _r_ , not _safe_ —but he lets her cry herself out anyway. It’s just easier to let her get it out now than risk her having a panic attack if they get into more trouble on the way back to the quinjet.

That, and he’s not heartless. Her miserable little face was really getting to him.

“You’re okay,” he says, keeping his voice low and steady as she shakes in his arms. “You’re safe now. I’m not gonna let anyone else hurt you. You’ll be home in no time.”

To his relief, the tears don’t last long. It’s only a few minutes before she’s pulling away and wiping her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sniffling a bit. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Adrenaline crash,” he says, giving her an out. “Happens all the time. Don’t worry about it.”

“Right,” she says quietly. “Adrenaline crash.”

She still looks embarrassed. Better to just push past it than waste time trying to reassure her, he figures.

“We should get moving,” he says. “You up for walking, or you want me to carry you?” When she opens her mouth, he holds up a hand. “Keep in mind, I wasn’t kidding about the long walk. It’s a good five miles to the quinjet.”

At that, she wilts a little. “I suppose you should carry me, then.”

He has to read the words on her lips; her voice is lost under the droning of a chopper flying overhead. Looking up, he marks it as civilian, not SHIELD.

The media’s arrived. Damn it.

“Okay, change of plans,” he says. “We’re stealing a car.”

Simmons looks alarmed. “Can’t we just take a cab?”

“No.” He moves to the end of the alley to do a quick sweep of the street. “As we speak, SHIELD is descending _en masse_ on that jackass’ mansion. Traffic’ll be a mess. We don’t need to be in transportation I can’t control.”

“But…” She looks around a little helplessly. “What if the person whose car you steal really needs it? You’ll be stranding them here!”

Is she serious? A quick read of her expression suggests yeah, she is. He doesn’t know what to do with that, he really doesn’t.

“ _They_ can call a cab,” he says. “Come on. Think you can limp to the end of the street?”

“Cars are _expensive_ ,” she hisses as she follows him. “You could ruin them financially!”

…She’s kind of adorable.

“Tell you what,” he says, jimmying the lock on the anonymous grey sedan on the corner, “while I’m driving, you find the registration and take a picture. SHIELD’ll see the owner reimbursed. How’s that?”

Door successfully opened, he looks up to find her staring at him.

“What?” he asks.

“That…” She clears her throat. “That sounds reasonable. Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says, and nods to the passenger side door. “Now get in.”

He waits until she makes it around the car and into the seat before ducking in himself. It’s not even ten seconds’ work to hotwire, and then they’re off.

Simmons occupies herself with finding the registration, after which he kindly passes her his phone so she can take a picture. That done, she starts to hand it back—then pauses as it buzzes.

“You just received an unhappy text,” she says, in a mild tone that screams _understatement_.

“Does it insult my intelligence at least twice?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Yes.”

“That’d be from your boyfriend, then,” he says. “He hasn’t been impressed by my work.”

“Boyf—oh.” Her sigh is exasperated. “Fitz isn’t my _boyfriend_ , Agent Ward, he’s just my partner.”

“You sure about that?” He spares her a glance as he slows to a stop at a red light. She’s tapping out a text now, no doubt trying to calm Fitz. “‘Platonic’ wasn’t the read I got off him.”

“I’m very sure,” she says, tone bordering on impatient. “Fitz and I have never been—and will never be—like that. People make assumptions because of how close we are, that’s all.”

She’s obviously annoyed, and he’s tempted to let it go. Still, he knows what he saw in Fitz, and he’s got a feeling where it’s gonna lead. He’ll be a pretty poor hero if he lets her get ambushed the second they make it back to the Hub.

“Okay, Simmons.” The light turns green, so he can’t look at her while he says it; maybe it’s better that way. “I can tell you don’t wanna hear this, but I want you to remember that my life literally, regularly depends on being able to read people. Fitz is one hundred percent in love with you.”

“I told you—”

“I’m not accusing you of secretly dating him,” he interrupts. “I believe that you don’t feel that way about him. I’m just saying, _he_ feels that way about _you_. And you need to know that, because I’d lay good money that this whole kidnapping incident woke him up. First chance he gets, he’s gonna confess his feelings to you.”

Simmons is quiet for a long, long minute. “You really think so?”

“Good money,” he says again. “ _Really_ good money.”

“Oh, _Fitz_ ,” she mutters, sitting heavily back in her seat.

And that’s apparently that. After a few prompts only get him one-word answers, he gives up on conversation and focuses on getting them back to the quinjet in one piece. She doesn’t look like she’s sulking or anything, at least; just thinking really, really hard.

xxx

She doesn’t speak again until they’re in the quinjet and well on their way back to the Hub.

“I truly can’t thank you enough, Agent Ward,” she says, kind of suddenly, as he passes her a ration pack. (It’s been a long time since breakfast, and there’s no telling whether Calloway was even bothering to feed her.) “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come when you did.”

“All part of the job,” he says. “And hey, you made it easier with that explosion—you practically rescued yourself.”

It’s an exaggeration, but it puts a smile on her face—chasing away a tiny fraction of the despair creeping in around the edges of her expression. Whatever prompted her to blow up the lab, it’s haunting her. Probably will be for a while. There’s a breakdown coming; he just hopes he can get her back to SHIELD before it hits.

“Still,” she says, “I plainly owe you my life. I hope the need to rescue me didn’t keep you from anything important…?”

“Nah,” he says. She’s just toying with her ration pack; pointedly, he opens his own. “I was just off a year-long undercover op. Hadn’t even unpacked yet, let alone gotten involved in anything else.”

The visual prompt works; she opens her ration pack and picks through it, wrinkling her nose at the chicken and rice entrée but brightening at the sight of the tiny brownie. Then she pauses, looking up at him.

“You hadn’t unpacked yet?” she asks.

“Nope,” he says. “When I say just off, I mean _just_. Only had time to debrief and shower before I got sent out after you.”

“But,” she says, looking distressed again—damn it—“don’t you have mandated leave?”

“I do.” He leans over and nudges her brownie closer to her. “And I’m sure I’ll get extra for this. They probably won’t let me back in the field for weeks. Eat.”

“Oh, but—”

“Simmons,” he says with exaggerated patience, “do you know why it’s called _mandated_ leave?”

“Because it’s legally mandated,” she says, a bit sadly. “You were _owed_ —”

“No,” he says over her, “because it has to be mandatory for specialists to take it.”

She gives him a sideways look. “What?”

“No specialist wants to spend three to five days sitting on their ass instead of working,” he promises her. “The leave’s a pain; I’ve spent _years_ trying to get out of it. Seriously, I owe you one.”

“Really?” she asks skeptically.

“Really,” he says. “You can ask Hill if you don’t believe me. The higher-ups play leave excuse bingo.”

“They what?” she asks, a laugh in her voice.

“Play leave excuse bingo,” he says. “Last year Rumlow won it for Sitwell by claiming he needed to be in an untraceable location to avoid an angry ex-girlfriend.”

“You’re making that up,” she accuses.

“Dead serious,” he swears. “Hill was furious; all she needed was a fabricated tip on a cold case and she’d have won.”

Laughing, Simmons finally eats the brownie. “Specialists are absurd.”

“Oh really?” he asks. “Because it wasn’t the Ops Academy that had to close down for three days over a _false zombie alarm_.”

Simmons stops laughing. “How do you know about that?”

“Are you kidding? _Everyone_ knows about that.”

“That,” she says, in the least convincing tone he’s ever heard, “was not my fault.”

He leans back to stretch for his tablet, carelessly discarded in the back. “Really? Because your file says otherwise.”

“It’s in my _file_?” she asks, distraught.

“Yep.” The tablet’s out of reach, but it’s not like he needs it anyway. That particular line item was extremely memorable. “Got you an extra three points on the mad scientist index.”

She makes a despairing noise and hides her face in her hands, and Grant has to laugh.

“You’re still below the benchmark,” he promises. “But your shenanigans score is out of control. Sounded like your Academy years were fun.”

Simmons eyes him suspiciously. “My file does _not_ include a ‘shenanigans’ score.”

“It really does.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “You’re a liar, Agent Ward.”

“That’s what they pay me for,” he agrees cheerfully.

“You didn’t deny it!” she cries. “You _are_ lying!”

“Am I, though?”

“Admit it!” she demands, but she’s laughing.

Grant hides a smile, declines to confess, and passes her his own brownie. There’s not a trace of that despair on her face anymore.

xxx

He’s still congratulating himself on so effectively directing Simmons away from her impending breakdown when they land at the Hub. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t see it coming.

Fitz is waiting for them in the hangar, barely held back by Hill—if she didn’t have a firm grip on him, he’d probably end up squished under the quinjet’s descent. Simmons lets out a little squeal when she spots him, waving madly through the windshield. She’s so obviously eager—unbuckling her seatbelt before they’ve even touched down and nearly elbowing Grant in the face in her scramble out of her seat—that the way she hesitates in the cabin puts all his nerves on edge.

“Something wrong?” he asks, hurrying to get out of his own seat.

“No,” she says. “It’s just—you’ve already done so much for me. But I’m going to ask for one more thing, please.”

“Okay…?”

As he approaches, she turns and hits the button to lower the ramp. Then, before it can do more than _hiss_ as the seal releases, she whirls back around, fists her hand in his vest, and yanks him down into a kiss.

The _fuck_?

Grant may be confused, but he’s not fool enough to turn down a kiss from a gorgeous woman like Simmons when it’s on offer. He slides an arm around her waist, pulls her in close, and sinks a hand into her hair to re-angle her, easing their clash into something more comfortable.

He’s not gonna lie, it’s a damn good kiss.

“What the _hell_ , Simmons?!”

Oh, right. Fitz.

Oops.

Simmons jerks away, and Grant lets her. Then he busies himself with unstrapping his tac vest to avoid the judgment he can feel emanating from Hill.

“Fitz!” Simmons exclaims, her voice a little too high. “Hello! Look, I’m rescued! Have you met Grant?”

…Grant?

“ _Grant_?” Fitz squawks. “You—what— _Simmons_!”

“Oh, didn’t I—I suppose I didn’t,” she says, voice still higher than usual. “Grant and I are dating. We have been for several months.”

…Ah. Grant sees what’s happening here. This is what he gets for warning her about Fitz’s imminent ambush.

“ _Dating_?” Fitz echoes. “You never said you were dating anyone!”

“Well, it’s new,” she says. “It only started at the Tanzania lab. And I thought—after what happened with Milton—”

It sounds totally unconvincing to Grant (although he’s definitely curious about Milton and what might’ve happened with him), but Fitz, unbelievably, seems to buy it.

“Oh,” he says, embarrassingly glumly. “Oh, yeah. ‘Spose that makes sense.”

Simmons almost melts in relief that her terrible lie has been bought. Grant makes the mistake of eye contact with Hill, whose _you’ve gotta be kidding me_ glare could strip a layer of skin off. Not surprising, since she knows perfectly well that a) he spent Simmons’ whole time in Tanzania deep undercover in Dubai and b) he didn’t even know Fitzsimmons were two people three days ago. He shrugs, giving her his best _it wasn’t my idea_ look in return.

“Anyway,” Simmons says loudly. “I missed you, Fitz!”

Fitz startles, like in the chaos of his crush being revealed as hopeless he’d completely forgotten the whole kidnapping thing, and rushes up the ramp to hug her. There are exclamations of worry and relief on both sides, and also probably tears. Neither one of them looks like they’re gonna be leaving the quinjet anytime soon.

Shaking his head, Grant leaves them to it.

xxx

A few hours later, there’s a knock on the door of his temporary quarters.

“I am so sorry,” Simmons says as soon as he opens the door. “It’s only, I didn’t want to have to reject Fitz on top of—of everything else.”

Grant crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “You could’ve asked.”

“I could have,” she agrees, wincing a little, “but you might’ve said no.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission?” he asks wryly.

“Yes,” she says, voice small and ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

Grant can’t even pretend to be annoyed. He laughs.

“Hey,” he says, “it doesn’t bother me. I just don’t know how well it’s gonna work—you are a _terrible_ liar.”

“I am,” she agrees, brightening. “But you’re not! You can give me tips!”

Oh, boy. He steps back, out of the doorway. “You better come in.”

“Thank you,” she says politely, and follows him into his suite’s tiny living room. “It doesn’t have to be anything complex, really! Just a few texts, and I’ll take you out to dinner as thanks for saving my life, and in a few months—once Fitz has sufficiently recovered from the trauma of my kidnapping—we can break up due to the distance your work puts between us.”

There are a few flaws he could point out in this plan. One, a whole lot of people know that he spent the last year undercover; any one of them could call them on the lie. Two, she’s a horrible liar. Three, _Fitz_ isn’t the one who actually got kidnapped, and his trauma is gonna be a lot less than hers. Four, there’s no guarantee Fitz won’t ask her out the second she’s “single” again.

He could go on. And on and on.

It’s a terrible idea, really. He should absolutely refuse.

But he’s only human, and Fitz sent him a _lot_ of very rude texts over the last few days.

“All right,” he says. “I’m in.”

What’s the worst that could happen?

_9.22.2013_

“Fitzsimmons is not cleared for combat,” the doctor says, and Grant nearly chokes. “I’m told that won’t be an issue?”

“Fitzsimmons?” he asks. “Sir—”

“Oh, right,” Coulson says. “Almost forgot. I’m trusting you and Agent Simmons to be professional, Agent Ward.” He aims a stern finger at Grant. “No funny business on my Bus.”

Okay. Team assignment with a dead man, his fake girlfriend, and his fake girlfriend’s partner, who hates him and for whose benefit he’s fake-dating his fake girlfriend in the first place.

He’s almost afraid to ask who else is on the team.

Then his brain reboots.

“Wait,” he says, “they’re not cleared for combat? And you’re putting them on a _response team_?” What the hell does Jemma want to go into the field for, anyway? Last he checked, she was still in therapy from her last field adventure. “That is a _terrible_ —”

“God, are you dismissed,” Hill interrupts, and Grant gives up.

It’s gonna be a long mission.


End file.
